Just Another Night
by ChristmasInHollywood
Summary: Drunken oneshot. Random take on what happened after Passion. Wow, that sort of rhymes. BAus.


Been out this evening, so I wrote this when I was (ahem, I AM) drunk. Therefore, it is impressive. I cannot write sex sober. Any kind of sex at all, however mild. That is a fact.

Looooool.

Oh yeah, I own nothing at all. Not even the alcohol I am still reeling from – that's my friend's alcohol. So really, I 'm a humungous scrounger. This fic is scrounged. Even the idea has probably been done before, many many times I bet.

I'm in a really B/Aus mood at the moment… it's odd. But strangely fun. Fun ship. I'll get on with the story now, shall I?

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The gravestone stood, hard and grey against the fading sun. Pink and blue clouds streaked the horizon, blurring at the edges where they faded into the deep blue of the sky. Two girls stood, their backs against the sinking sun, staring at the new grave in front of them like they had all the pain in the world, and eternity to feel it in.

"I'll always feel bad," said the first girl, who had hair like sunbeams and eyes like the sea. "I could have killed him. I didn't. I didn't when I had the chance."

"It's not your fault," said the second girl, a redhead with a permanently apologetic expression on her face, as though she knew she was going to do something awful, but couldn't help it happening. "You loved him, and he loved you."

"I still love him," said the blonde, silhouetted against the darkening sky, her hair still gleaming in strands blown by the slight breeze, catching the last rays the sun had thrown across the graveyard. "I always will." The redhead sighed, shadows creeping across the grass as dusk sunk in.

"She was a good teacher," said the redhead at last, with an air of finality. "She was good at so many things."

"Except for doing her actual job, of course." This voice was new – male. Cold, but inexplicably seductive. The blonde visibly shook, despite the warm California air.

"Angel," she said softly, to the dark-haired man who leant against a nearby grave like it was an unimportant object, giving off an air of nonchalance that was at once intriguing and disconcerting. He smiled, an icy smile that would frighten children.

"Miss me, Buff?" His tone was mocking, his gaze completely knowing. Buffy did not reply, trying to will herself not to succumb immediately, but continued to stare at the grave, as though trying to find solace in the newly-cut stone. "You uninvited me."

"You're not welcome." She spoke flatly, emotion only visible in the way her hands were shaking. The redhead started, moving backwards like a frightened deer. One hand was inside her jacket, ready to pull out the wooden cross she had tucked in her pocket.

"Relax, Will," said Angel. "I won't hurt you." He moved slowly forwards, smirking, his hands up in mock-defeat as Willow automatically inched backwards.

"Go away," said Buffy, half-stern. It was clear she didn't mean it, and she didn't move at all as Angel moved closer to her. Willow began to stutter, her eyes darting to the exit of the graveyard, as though weighing up her chances. She gave Buffy a helpless glance, and received just a defeated stare in return – nothing whatsoever to comfort her. Angel was still smiling, knowing he was in control of this situation.

"Run home then Will – it's not like you have fish you need to feed anymore." He grinned nastily as he said this, pure sadism, one hand around Buffy's waist as she subconsciously drew herself closer to him. He looked possessive, in control, undefeatable. Willow bit her lip, this comment grating even though she was determined not to react. With one last helpless look, Willow turned and fled. Buffy watched her go, tears in her eyes. She could feel Angel's hand biting into her side, and felt simple, primal, unreasonable need shoot through her, engulfing her and leaving her breathless. She watched as Willow turned the corner, turning to Angel and gripping his shirt without realising what she was doing.

"She's gone," he said, his hands pulling at her flimsy shirt, yanking it roughly from her shoulders. She let him rip it from her body, fumbling with his own shirt as she did so. He backed her up against a mausoleum, vandalised by students. It was old and cheap-looking; it felt cheap too, peeling plaster digging into her skin. This was such a familiar routine, but she felt as though it had a whole new angle to it tonight. _Jenny_, the air seemed to whisper, as she was pushed roughly, repeatedly against the wall. Every scrape of cheap plaster hard against her back screamed 'murder'. But it felt… so… good.

Each touch, each kiss, each thrust made her body ache for more. She ran her hands through Angel's hair, feeling him bite down hard at the base of her neck. The small of her back was raw were it had been rammed again and again against the rough wall. She moaned his name as blood soaked into her hair, her clothes. The cut on her neck was healing, but like the others it would leave a small purple bruise, a cruel reminder for the morning. His way of making sure she'd never forget who she belonged to. She rubbed it, not easing the pain. In fact, it throbbed afresh. The grass was cold under her knees, and she could feel the tears beginning to fall. Those, at least, made her feel more human.

Just another night. He turned, and left, with one last look that told her she was his. Then he was gone into the dark, and she gathered up her clothes, and headed home for just another night of guilty sleep alone.

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Don't you just adore tricolons? I know I do.

Please review, hellz yeah. I looooooooove reviews. Preferably before tomorrow. I'll wake up and be like 'urgh, headache, yay, reviews!'.


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